Team 8 9
by skipperxotter
Summary: Those humanitarian morons harp endlessly about how we must try to rehabilitate all of you pathetic creatures. Zombie!TF2 fic, Medic's POV, M for necro/violence/cannibalism, Dark Humor
1. Meet the Team

**I do not own TF2**

**This story was spawned by the fact that respawn technology would probably drive people insane. **

**POV: Medic  
**

**Chapter 1: In which the story begins  
**

**xXxXxXx  
**

I suppose that this isn't all bad, it is a job. Sort of.

Oh who am I shitting? This isn't anything like what I signed up for. Being sent out to kill the very men who where fighting a war for our freedom! This is sick. May the Announcer go to Hell! Dried up bitch.

Everyone thought that the respawn system was a great idea, everyone. Just sent out nine professionals to fight against another team of nine, and make it so they can't die. Have the groups fight for 8 hours a day and tally up the points in the end. The one who loses is the one who has the least amount of points.

The electronic version worked really well, for a while. Till the brass realized that people could still die, if they wandered out of the respawn zones. So they came up with the brillant idea of making a chemical version. Oh, sooooo brilliant.

Didn't the fucks bother to see if there where any side effects /before/ they sent it to the front?

The chemical version worked alright, but fucked with the user's head. Every injection [it came in one dose every 6 months] drove the user a little crazier. Some started to act like cannibals, others just lost it, shooting themselves over and over again; trying to die.

Nobody noticed, or at least, nobody who mattered noticed. The brass got so many pleas from the Medics on both sides, begging them to discontinue the drug, to bring back the electronic RS.

They didn't pay attention till after the once a year dose was made.

Mutherfucking blind assholes, I hope they rot in Hell. I'm not just talking about the Announcer, but all those shitty scientists who made the serum.

Eh, I shouldn't talk, I helped produce the damn thing. May the Lord forgive me.

"Oi! Doc! A little help here!"

Pathetic creature, even with its legs ripped off and organs oozing across the floor, it still tries to eat me. They aren't zombies, just insane immortal humans, immortal till the serum runs out that is. Yet the only way to kill them is by destroying the brain, funny isn't it?

I've always hated irony.

There shouldn't be so many of them, but it seems that some of the men who went insane learned to make a basterdized version of the drug. Same effects, temporary immortality, slow creeping insanity, plus a high like no other.

Dear Lord, may the bastard be put through a meat grinder and fed to the monsters he created. By the time that we figured out that the new "high" on the streets was caused by the homemade serum, it was too late. Too many people had fallen to it.

At least you can't be infected by a bite. A tiny ray of light in this gloomy place.

May you rest in peace, poor fool. If we had the resources, I would have shot you, but all I have is a wrench and it's embedded in your head. I hate cleaning the damn thing. Sometimes I wonder how far you crawled, using nothing but your maimed arms. What is it like to be immortal? Is it worth the insanity-

"Doc! Let's move!"

Right. I must move one, there are many more of you to kill. Those humanitarian morons harp endlessly about how we must try to rehabilitate all of you pathetic creatures. If they can ever come out with an antidote then I will take their suggestion to heart, but we /don't/ have the resources to save all of you.

Besides, seeing the dull metal of my wrench smash through you brain, and feeling the vibration of steel cracking bone is addicting.


	2. The SS Begins

**I do not own TF2**

**D: short of druggie, lingo for people who when insane while on the RS serum.**

**Chapter 2: In which the Newbie bites the Dust**

**xXxXxXx**

Oh hell. Not again. Stop shaking me boy, I need sleep.

What time is it?

1 fucking 20 in the morning.

"Get up Doc! We got an SS to do!"

Fuck.

SS is the creative...lingo...for Swamp Sweeps. Nothing like wandering around in thigh high water with crocodiles and snakes in the middle of the night while trying to find and kill a bunch of D's. Especially when said D might by lurking at the bottom of swamp, waiting to take a chunk out of your foot.

"Shut up pup, I'm up already." Annoying little brat.

"Come on Doc! Everyone else is up!"

"Shut up."

"Holy shit, you actually repeated yourself!"

"Brat, I'm tired. Now get out of my face so I can get dressed. And stop calling me Doc. I'm not a doctor anymore."

I haven't been a doctor for a long time. When the media found out I co-created the serum, the brass pulled my license. Offically I'm a Soldier, since the brass decided that we should keep the 9 man teams. It's sickening see the slot that is rightfully mine be filled by another.

In the transport I get to sit next to the 'real' Medic of this team. He's a nice guy, if a bit too neurotic. He was a dentist before he got drafted. Shows since he had a set of pearly whites that look like they came out of a pre-serum commercial. I only notice him since I sit next to the man, and since he is new.

We never really have a Medic who sticks around for more than a couple of weeks, they always get shuffled off. Something about my team makes them nervous, and they aren't fit for us. It's a wonder why the brass just keeps sending them in, since they die so quickly. Sniper, Heavy, and Pyro are all convicted criminals; murder, rape, necrophilia, arson. Whatever, it makes them great at killing D's. Scout and Demo are both women, I think. Scout is just plain nuts, damn pup talks to her necklace, which is a glass pendent with the preserved body of a fetus in it. Rumor has it that the fetus was her child. Demo...well...I pity her. Spy was a slave trader, I swear he only joined up to see who he could sell.

And there is me, the disgraced doctor.

Can you see why newbies don't stay too long?

Swamps. I hate swamps. Festering puddles of rotting plant life and bugs. Perfect place for a D to hide. So many animals to eat, so many places to lurk where humans cannot go. At least they come to us.

/"How can you see into my eyes like open doors?"/

We all get a song, that is the way it works. Nine songs and then a break, then another nine songs. This goes on and on and on and on till no more D's come. Or we run out of ammo. The brass doesn't like it, but we traded guns for a stereo with solar panels. They didn't complain, but we got some strange looks.

That is Scout's song by the way, she loves the band Evanescence. I think that is what it is called.

And they come, slouching, crawling, limping on limbs torn and battered. Some drop dead as they get close, the serum's effect running out. The brass has us set up markers, about 50 feet away from us in all directions. Rules are that you don't engage a D in melee combat before they cross the marker.

Instead of guns, Sniper made a couple of long bows [He got teased for being an Aussie, though he is really British]. I can't shoot for beans with it, but Scout can, same as Sniper. The rest of us are regulated to melee duty while the two of them pick off any D that is out of our range.

Medic is obviously a noob, he can't stop shaking and praying. Little pansy, he can't even hold a crowbar right. The way he is holding it is like he expects the D's to slouch up to him and sit down while he hits them three or four times.

"HELL YES! COME ON YA BLOODY WANKERS!" Sniper has quite a set of vocal cords. "LET'S DO THIS." Arrows sprout from many a D's eye, causing them to topple like bowling pins.

"Leave some for us ya stupid dingo!" Demo roars, literally. "We wanna crush some skulls too!"

Ah...yes...crushing skulls. It's such messy fun, blood and brains flying through the air, red and grey rain. Medic is wailing and swinging his crowbar around. He hasn't hit a thing.

"Hey Doc! The noob got himself nailed!" Scout's laugh echos through the gloom. She's right, Medic is bleeding heavily from a bite wound. Useless man. Pathetic, taking up a slot that is already filled.

"Help me...please someone!"

I don't have time to care for him, if he does survive, he won't be of use. What can a one armed dentist do?

Nothing.

"Sorry mate, better luck next time." Fresh brains and blood taste so much better than that of a D. But there is no time to admire the picture he makes, head smashed in, blood mixing with the fetid swamp. The last song has just played, and we have a break. Means no fighting, only clean up.

I'll leave him to the D's. Sniper and Scout can pick them off when he is gone, means less paper work for me.

They work quick, everyone just sits and watches, expressions amused as the D's fight among themselves. Soon nothing but a gory, stripped skeleton will remain, sinking slowly into the swamp, never to be seen again.

"Bloody 'ell Doc, next time save me a piece."

"Sorry, will do so Snips."

The role of Medic is mine. The brass can deny that I am a doctor, but they will not give my slot to anyone else. I am the Medic of this team. I am the Medic. Only me.


	3. Spy's Song

**I do not own TF2**

**I do own the OCs, though they have no names at the moment**

**Chapter 3: In which Spy is an Ass**

**xXxXxXx  
**

"Gather 'round friends the day's gettin' old, an' I've got a tale to tell."

Spy has a beautiful voice. Though the songs he sings are always made up.

"There once was a man, crazy and cold. Who lived by the broken 'ol well."

Heavy snorts, he knows where this song is going, as do I. Spy loves to sing this one, for all that it makes me sick. Or it might be /because/ it makes me sick.

"He wasn't bad lookin' but not a sweet bell dare see, that bitter man who lived by the well"

This is one of those days, when we have free time. Free time, what a joke. We never have free time. After the SS we got the call that we had the rest of the day off. Right, like we are supposed to relax in a swamp full of D's. Fucking morons.

"His sweet ol' muther came by ta scold. She said 'darhling ya need to get laid!'"

"I'm going to hunt."

"Aw...Doc! Ya not gonna listen to the rest of Spy's song?"

"No. You know I don't like that song Scout."

Spy is smirking, fucking puffed up peahen.

"And the man looked at his sweet muther, and roared to the skies...." Asshole is looking right at me.

Heavy and Scout join in on this verse. "Only the dead make mah cock wanna rise!"

I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.

Demo decided to come with me, for whatever reason. I'm not sure why. She even shouted at the rest of them before we left.

"Leave the poor man alone! Yah know he dun like it."

Dear Lord, now that I think about it...was she /defending/ me? Urgh....how far have I fallen, to warrent the concern of a madwoman. The concern of a madwoman who thinks I'm her father.

The water here isn't that deep, only about knee high. Means that any D around is easier to see. Not a challenge, but I didn't come to hunt. Christ, I came to clear my head of Spy's foul song. Sniper is a cannibal, I can accept that, provided he cooks the meat [don't want him getting any parasites]. Pyro likes to burn people to death, fine. Scout talks to her skeleton-fetus-necklace thing, I'm good with that. But the idea of necrophilia makes me puke.

Heavy can do anything he likes, just as long as he doesn't do it in front of me. The last time I saw him, he was fucking a bloody D. That is a little extreme, cause they aren't really dead...or are they? Well that one was moving...so I guess they aren't dead. Looking back on it, he should have stuck to fucking the ones that are dead dead, not the psuedo-dead ones.

Stitching up bites on Heavy's cock was not fun.

Seriously, if it's jaw muscles work, don't fuck it's mouth. Moron.

"Look Doc! Ah got one!"

"Good job, let's take it back."

That crazy woman is holding a dead alligator. How one earth did she...nope, don't wanna know.

"Ah did good right Doc? I did good right?"

"Yes...you did good." I pet her head affectionately, there is no harm in indulging her fantasy.

I wonder if Sniper knows how to cook alligator.


End file.
